


slipping (through my fingers)

by Jupiter117



Series: Salt & Burn [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes-centric, Extended Metaphors, M/M, Metaphors, i went easy on them for this fic, i will moderate comments if y'all decide to be shitty, if you're a fan of team cap, inspired by my own struggles with memory loss, light dissing of team cap, look away now, not team Cap friendly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-20 23:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21289991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiter117/pseuds/Jupiter117
Summary: Regaining memories is like trying to make a castle from dry sand.Put simply, it doesn’t work. The sand slips between Bucky’s fingers; individual grains wedge into his palm lines, gather at the webbing between each digit. It’s nothing more than a hint. A vague feeling. It’s him knowing there should be a memory there, but having nothing to show for it.// All works in this series can be read as stand alones //
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark
Series: Salt & Burn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1534754
Comments: 25
Kudos: 696





	slipping (through my fingers)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Kiss kiss, bang bang](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13279374) by [withered](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withered/pseuds/withered). 

Regaining memories is like trying to make a castle from dry sand. 

Put simply, it doesn’t work. The sand slips between Bucky’s fingers; individual grains wedge into his palm lines, gather at the webbing between each digit. It’s nothing more than a hint. A vague feeling. It’s him knowing there should be a memory there, but having nothing to show for it. 

Sometimes, the sand is a little damp. He’s able to pack it into his dumb little metaphorical pail and pack it down tight. He can flip it over, nestle it into the bank—and when he pulls the pail away, most of it stays. Some of it crumbles away and sloughs off, but it’s there, mostly. He knows what happened. He can recall how things turned out that way. Sure, Bucky can’t connect to the feelings of the time, and he’s stuck watching it as if out of his own body—but he remembers it nonetheless. This is the memory that Steve likes best. Bucky can elaborate on it, build it up, until Steve is satisfied. He can school his features into a smirk or a grin, a sly wink or a nostalgic sort of sadness. He can piece enough together that Steve doesn’t turn those damn disappointed eyes on him, the ones he uses whenever Bucky doesn’t act the way Steve thinks he should, whenever Bucky differs now than he did when they were both just kids.

And sometimes, the sand is perfect. Wet and moldable. Pliable. Sometimes, Bucky can make huge cities out of sand, sprawling metropolises, cities and forts and manors of memories, flowing smooth and perfect from each part to the next. They are the clearest; they are the most real. 

Usually, they’re the most violent. 

Inevitably, the tide washes in. Blood red and thick, viscous, the ocean destroys his castle and drags it back into the swirling, goading waters. The memories are there but they’re tainted, filled with gore. They’re memories that belong to the Soldier, memories that the other part of him tries to spare him from—but seventy years is a long time to keep repressed and locked away. The Soldier can only do so much. The Soldier stands between him and the waves, and while it lessens the damage, it doesn’t stop the ocean by any means. It’s not much protection, but Bucky will take it. 

But, Bucky is tired of building sandcastles. He wants something different. He wants something  _ new _ . And when the pardons are signed and they move into the Compound; when he can breathe a little bit, when the voice in the ceiling lets him find time for himself away from the others, when he starts to find something else in himself than just sand, Bucky finds his new  _ thing. _

It’s Stark.

He’s the future. He’s bright. He’s snarky and sarcastic, he takes no shit from anyone, and he’s the only one that stands before him when the Soldier is too close to the surface and tells him  _ ‘stand down, Barnes’ _ and  _ ‘Soldier has discretion’ _ and  _ ‘you didn’t deserve what happened to you, but you still have to atone for it’. _ It’s new. It’s different. It’s…

It’s a wooden foundation that he puts together, piece by piece, nail by nail, sliver by sliver, and it hurts, and he bleeds, but the ocean  _ can’t take it away. _ This is his. This will  _ always _ be his. 

So he starts to follow Stark. Is it a good idea? Probably not. It probably never will be. But Bucky does it anyway. He appears in every room that Stark goes into. He’s a shadow behind him. He glares Barton into submission when he starts running his mouth. He shows his teeth when the witch’s hands glow red, Stark’s eyes reflecting fear despite the sunglasses he wears even indoors now. He starts to step between Stark and Steve when Steve starts ragging on the man for ignoring his orders in the field, taking the blame on himself, and hating the sympathy and understanding that Steve reserves only for him. He stops Romanova from breaking into Stark’s workshop no less than four times in the span of one month. 

He’s not expecting anything out of it. He’s not. He just wants to keep building that foundation of his. So he catches himself with surprise when he realizes the floorboards are ingrained with the lines on Stark’s calloused hands from when he’d fixed the arm, that the structural beams are the strength of the Iron Man suits, that the light filtering in from the windows is the same brightness of Stark’s smiles, and that the wind that whistles calmly through his thatched roof sounds like the laughs that bubble up in Stark’s throat sometimes.

He builds his house around Stark, and for the first time in seventy fucking years, his body is free of sand.

And he  _ isn’t _ expecting anything of it and never has, but Stark gives to him anyway. Stark lets him into the workshop. Stark watches movies with him. Eats with him. Takes him out to restaurants and cafes when he’s feeling good, demands his help with lifting engines and fixing the suits and creating stupid little gadgets and robots like the ones from the books Bucky had read back in the 1940’s when he’s not. 

Suddenly, Bucky becomes James, and Stark becomes Tony. Suddenly, the couch in Tony’s penthouse is seeing more use than the corner of James’s room that he’s spent his nights trying to sleep in since he’d arrived. Suddenly, the war in his chest calms and he feels like he can breathe again, like he can actually begin to heal, now that the salt water is out of the gaping wounds in his chest. 

It’s not perfect, of course.

They fight. They yell. They make mistakes. But Tony apologizes and calls himself a dick; James apologizes and refuses to let Tony leave his lap for at least one full movie. They don’t try to one up each other, and they don’t find each other lacking. There is no need for James’s connections to his past. There is no need for the legacy that Tony has spent his whole life trying to live up to. It’s just Tony and James, James and Tony. The rest of the world, as far as they’re concerned, can go fuck itself and leave them alone. 

James built them a house. Tony made it a home.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a hemorrhage and subsequent brain surgery when I was 10 years old. Dealing with lost memories--and the people that want you to be the same as you were before--is hard. Really hard. And Bucky? Bucky deserved better.
> 
> Comments that were rude & looking to start a fight have since been deleted.


End file.
